His clothes felt sticky like sap, clinging to him. The entire night he tossed and turned in fear of what awaits when his eyes are closed. Heat dripping down his back from his growing panic and anxiety. Jack had to crawl in and hold him for him to actually be able to close his eyes, though. Which was embarrassing to a degree that Race couldn't even comprehend.

His dripping steamy sweat was so thick it looked like he'd wet the bed out of pure anxiety, festering inside the pits of his stomach.

There was only one point of his life where he felt this constant, livid fear. He hated suspenseful movies and he hated being in them even more.

Every turn he made, every step he took, could be the wrong one and could lead to things worse than death.

Race knew all about worse than death, he's lived in worst than death.

The thoughts cast spiraling shivers down his arm, crawling like little spiders around him, forcing him to feel antsy and spacey.

He rubbed his arms, pressing his nails into each swipe to stop the chilling shivers dancing under his skin where the itch was unreachable.

Disgusting slimy sweet glistened on his hands.

He needed to take a shower.

"Jack?" He whispered from the living room.

Jack turned around from his tv show to look at Race concerned.

"Yes?" He asked pausing Brooklyn 99.

Race swallowed and pushed his greasy overgrown hair out of his eyes, "I'm going to take a shower."

Jack nodded slowly, "uh okay? Just call if something happens."

Race scrunched up his nose, he hated the tight security that wrapped around him like a snake, squeezing every time he exhaled, making it almost impossible to breath.

Sometimes Race felt like he couldn't breath anymore. Then he'd have to cut away the snake, so he could inhale one last time.

Nowadays he felt like he was inhaling water, a surplus that drowned him from the inside out.

On days like this he almost wanted to sit down next to Jack, and talk about the racing zipping thoughts cutting through his head, like a herd of zebras. Almost impossible to solo one out, for it was too fast, too strong, and too bad for Race to want to think about it.

But he was scared to open his mouth, otherwise all the water filling his stomach up like a balloon would fall out of his mouth and leave him bone dry, exposed and alone.

So instead he decided to take a shower.

On his way upstairs he waved to Davey who was working hard on research. Race didn't want to glance at the open computer screen, too afraid of what may come of it. Too afraid of who he was searching about.

Despite Race's ever growing thoughts, he didn't want to die. Not anymore. He had friends, family, a joyous career he loved. He wanted to see where he ended up, he wanted to see himself grow. For the first time in his life Race was starting to live and as always it was being taken away from him again.

His limbs felt heavy, and weak, like he had ankle weights on that held the weight of his thoughts. If he took a step too low he'd tumble to the ground and fall. So he struggled and struggled to lift his legs high enough to carry him forward.

Maybe the shower would help, Race found a good shower helped everything. The water washed away the dirt on his body and the dirt in his mind, leaving himself feeling squeaky clean like a crisp baby. Sometimes he wondered if that was because he felt like the bad in him was a dirt that was going to go away one day, if only he could shower his mind.

Weirdly enough the handle was palm warm, but he's sure no one's used this bathroom. It's the farthest one from Davey and Jack at the moment.

As he inhaled his surplus of water, the scent of expensive Italian perfume filled his lungs, making him cough.

Nobody he knew wore Italian perfume.

Gasping slightly Race grabbed his knife. It was cold and a stark contrast against the warmth of his hands, yet nervous sweats glistened the knife making it slippery and hot. Race hated it, but he gripped tighter through the thin layer of water.

He put his ears up to the door, desperate to listen, but as he heard the silence, his heart yearned to cover it up. Getting louder and louder it thumped like a drum consuming Race's ears.

He looked down at the handle, reaching his hand forward and turning slightly.

He slammed open the door and stabbed forward, his knife came in contact with air, slicing through the tiny water particles floating about.

Frowning Race closed the door, looking behind it.

No one was there, just Race and his anxiety.

Holding his hand over his heart Race rubbed his hair and laughed a bit. The whole thing was just him being paranoid.

He put the knife down on the counter, listening for the clank and stripped off his sweaty pants, underwear, and shirt. The air conditioning blasted against his wet body cooling him down which was nice.

He walked over to the shower, the rug soft underneath his bare feet.

He pulled back the cheap curtain, and stepped into the shower.

But there on the back wall, written in liquid chalk was beautiful calligraphy, written with patience and grace.

"You will be my best piece,

-your secret admirer"

Race grasped at his mouth, tripping backwards and pulling the shower curtain down with him. He tried to cry, to scream, to sob, but all he could do was gasp for air, a silent scream only he could feel.

He couldn't breath, and he was tripping over his own feet, landing on the ground with a horrible thud, knocking his head onto the ground.

His elbow aches from where he jammed into into the side of the tub and he scrambled backwards into the wall, sobbing out of control.

He was not in control, he could do nothing again, no matter how careful he was someone was stalking him, following him and wanted him.

He grabbed at his hair, pulling against itself to silence his painful heart. The very thing keeping him alive, torturing him with every waking hour.

He hated this, he really hated this. It was middle school all over again, sobbing all over himself, getting blood everywhere.

He was terrified and this time he couldn't hide away from his problems because they kept finding him. Now all he could do was run and pray he never tripped, never stumbled, never fall.

His own damn life was out of his control, once again he was frozen just watching it unravel before him, revealing the tender insides he spent years protecting.

He hated this, he needed control, he couldn't continue on like this.

The corner of his eye glistened, and his eyes landed on the shiny knife.

For the first time that day, his breathing slowed down and he could hear his thoughts over his thumping heart.

No, he couldn't. He was clean, and healthy, and better.

But he was always sweating so hard he felt it drip down his hair. And he hasn't stopped sweating until his eyes landed on that knife.

His hands were still shaking, which he hated. And well, he only knew one thing that truly stopped it.

His desires were stronger than any will he could muster up, and he savagely grabbed the knife, analyzing it like a paper he'd yet to read.

He looked down at his legs.

Well, old habits die hard they always say.